


A Sin With No Name

by Selkit



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood, Postpartum Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:04:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkit/pseuds/Selkit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathaniel almost never cries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sin With No Name

The pain is far, far worse than she expected.

She bites her lip bloody, holding in the screams until spots float before her eyes. She breathes when the healers tell her to and pushes when they yell in her ear, screaming and straining until her vision blurs and sweat pours in rivers down her face. Her eyes dart wildly across the room in search of sympathetic eyes, hands reaching in vain for something, someone to latch onto, but she finds no one.

It finally ends, as all things do, and they prop her limp body up against the pillows. Her limbs feel heavy and useless, dead branches dangling from a storm-ravaged tree, but she summons her last bit of strength and holds out her hands.

They put the baby in her trembling arms, and she stares down at it, holding her breath. Waiting.

 _It will all be worth it_ , the midwives had assured her, smiling their bland smiles and patting her hand in their detached, vaguely condescending manner. She’d been just another first-time mother to them, young and overanxious and naïve. _When you see your child for the first time, the pain will fade. It will be the proudest, happiest moment of your life._

_Trust us, dear. We’ve seen it happen more times than you can count._

She looks at the infant—her son—stares and stares until air scratches at her eyes and she remembers to blink. She waits for the promised tide of happiness and contentment to wash over her—

Nothing.

She stares at her son and he stares right back, a tiny wrinkled thing all red and purple and blotchy. Dark tufts of hair cover his head, and his nose is too big, already protruding from his prune-like face. He neither cries nor blinks, and his sullen eyes latch onto hers. Accusing her.

 _You did this to me_ , they seem to say. _You forced me out of that safe warm place and into this cold hard world._

“Take it away,” she hears herself saying. “Take it—take him. Please.”

She feels the chill settling over the room, the weight of the healer’s judging gaze, but they pale in comparison to the leaden ache that anchors itself in her chest.

* * *

Her husband the Arl doesn’t even look at her when he strides into the birthing chamber, each footstep an ominous thud against the floor. For a moment she considers feigning sleep, but instead she pushes herself up to a sitting position, muffling a groan as pain ripples over her exhausted body. The midwife scurries to her feet and puts on her brightest smile, dipping into an effortless curtsey before plucking the babe from its crib.

“Your son, my lord,” she says, voice laced with reverence, as though it’s the infant Andraste she clutches in her arms. “A fine, healthy boy.” 

She hands the child to its father, then pauses.

“Your wife is also doing quite well,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. “She will make a full recovery.”

Rendon’s eyes flicker to the bed in a brief, disinterested glance before returning to the infant. The boy wriggles in his arms, waving a tiny fist and making a wet burbling sound.

“Well then,” he says. His tone is bland, as though discussing a report on grain prices instead of his newborn heir, but his wife sees satisfaction gleam in his eyes when they meet hers. “This ought to please your parents, won’t it? Or do you suppose they’ll reject him since he wasn’t born encrusted with jewels?”

She hunches down against the pillows, ignoring the gibe and the mocking chuckle that follows.

“Have you chosen a name, my lord?” the midwife asks politely, breaking the short, tense silence. She holds out her hands to receive the child, and he begins to fuss as he leaves his father’s arms, feet bobbing under the blankets. “For the christening?”

“Thomas,” the new mother says, the word somehow spilling out before her husband can answer. She winces at the hoarse sound, the voice barely recognizable as her own. Her throat is still raw from screaming. 

Rendon turns toward her, his lips pressed together, his eyes cold and flat. “Absolutely not.” His tone brooks no argument. “I’m not naming my firstborn son after your father. I’d sooner name him for the Empress of Orlais. We’ll call him Nathaniel.”

 _He’s my firstborn too_ , she almost retorts, but the words die before they reach her lips. 

Somehow, she doesn’t feel worthy to say them.

* * *

Nathaniel almost never cries.

She does enough for the both of them, spending the better part of each morning curled up on the bed with her face pressed to her pillow, letting the sobs wrack her body until they wring her dry. When she has no more tears left to shed, she forces herself upright, choking down morsels of food that never used to taste bland before.

Her smile feels frozen to her face, her voice caught somewhere between forced cheer and tears when she receives all the necessary guests. She curtseys and nods and clasps their hands, repeating the same words again and again until they sound almost genuine.

_Oh, yes, new motherhood is simply wonderful. Yes, it’s everything I dreamed it would be._

They keep coming and coming, parading through the estate like brightly colored birds, their trills and coos over the baby reaching a pitch high enough to pain a mabari. Only a lifetime of protocol and expectations keeps her from fleeing back to the dim gray solace of her chambers.

And all the while her son feels like dead weight in her arms, small suspicious eyes boring through her, always finding her wanting.

“Is there…is there anything wrong with him?” she asks the healer one afternoon, watching the other woman perform the usual checkup, lifting the child’s arms and legs and tickling him under his chin.

“Not at all,” the healer says cheerily, a bright smile lighting her face as she bundles the infant back up. “Healthy as a griffon, this one. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Griffons are extinct,” the new mother murmurs, but the healer only laughs.

“Was there anything else you needed?” she asks, though her eyes never leave the baby as she speaks, her giggles increasing when he wriggles around in her arms.

The mother bites her lip.

_If it isn’t him, then is it me? Why does he look at me like he’s staring straight through me? Why doesn’t he smile or laugh when I hold him? Why do I no longer want to do anything besides lie in bed and cry? Why doesn’t he feel like he’s mine? Why am I not overcome with joy when I look at him? Am I a horrible mother? Am I losing my mind? What is wrong with me?_

“No,” she says, and the smile freezes itself in place once more. “There’s nothing else. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

* * *

She sits on the bed, waiting, hands plucking at her gown. The garment is too big for her now, folds of excess fabric draped over her body, her protruding hipbones making ugly bumps beneath the elegant embroidering.

_(The healers congratulate her on how quickly she lost the baby weight. She doesn’t have the heart to tell them it’s because food no longer tastes like anything.)_

The knock on the door makes her blink, lifting her eyes from the crib to the servant girl hovering at the threshold.

“My lady,” the elf says, her accented voice rolling over the syllables. “The new nurse, as you requested.”

“Very well.” The mother rises slowly, the bed barely creaking under her diminished frame. The servant dips her head and flees, leaving only the nurse standing in the doorway, and the mother turns her head to look.

“Good day, Lady Howe.” The nurse’s voice is warm, soothing. A voice made for lullabies, the mother thinks fleetingly. “My name is Adria.”

“Good day,” she repeats. Her tongue is numb and the words faint, a pitiful shadow beside the nurse’s rich tone. She waves a listless hand at the crib. “He’s there.”

Adria’s expression turns uncertain, eyes lingering on the mother, but she walks to the crib and peers inside. Her breath leaves her in a little rush, and her hesitant gaze turns to a glowing smile.

“Well, hello there, little one,” she whispers. She reaches into the crib and draws the baby out, cradling him to her chest with practiced motions. “How are you today?”

The mother listens, and for a moment, she hears only silence.

Then, for the first time, Nathaniel laughs.

Adria chuckles right back, cooing and rocking, bouncing him in her arms. He laughs again, burbling and waving his hands, and his mother braces herself against the bed. Her vision swims, and her fingers splay against the mattress.

She drags herself up and walks to the door, and the laughter echoes in her ears when she pulls it shut behind her.


End file.
